


I Don't Wanna Walk Alone

by Chash



Series: Holiday Fills 2018 [26]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 04:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17216897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: Clarke Griffin is the first person to ever come to Bellamy's shop and request that henotmarry her. That's not, as a rule, why people come to Gretna Green.But Clarke has something else in mind.





	I Don't Wanna Walk Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bgonemydear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgonemydear/gifts).



> Inspired by the life of [this gentleman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Rennison). No effort put into accurate accents for England/Scotland, as always. Sorry, friends.

"I know this isn't your area of expertise, but I need you to _not_ marry me."

Bellamy looks up from his book to see a pretty girl with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes watching him, her expression shrewd and calculating. She's dressed in what he thinks of as the standard wedding ensemble, at least here: a serviceable dress, probably one of her nicest. She looks a little older than his usual runaway bride, but she could still be under the age of majority.

He has no idea what she wants.

"That doesn't sound hard," he says, with an easy smile. "I'm not marrying you right now, I think I can keep doing it."

Her mouth twitches like she wants to return the expression, but knows she shouldn't when things are so serious. "It's going to get harder."

"Is it?"

"I had a young man bring me here thinking he would marry me, but he's not going to. I think he'll try to insist. Will you not perform the marriage?"

He has a number of questions, but only one answer. "If you don't want to be married, I won't marry you."

She exhales her relief in a great sigh. "Perfect, thank you. I'll be back later this afternoon."

It's far from the first strange encounter Bellamy has had since taking up employment the "blacksmith" at the Hammer and Rings six months ago. He'd been reluctant at first, having no formal training with metalworking, but Charles had assured him that no one had expected real smithing from the shop in years, and if anyone _did_ need that kind of work done, he could always direct them elsewhere. 

And that, at least, has been true. All anyone has wanted Bellamy to do is marry them, and that, at least, he's good at. His favorites are the older couples who come to Gretna Green to be married quickly and without any fuss, the ones who have done this before and now just want it to be done with. It's a settled in, comfortable kind of romance that always makes him smile.

The young people worry him more, mostly because he sees his sister in every willful young bride who's decided she knows her heart and her parents could never understand. It's not even that he disagrees with their decision so much as it reminds him that he _doesn't_ , and he thinks they probably know enough to make those choices, which means that he should, perhaps, give his sister more credit than he does. Which isn't a thought he likes to sit with.

Not that everyone who comes to him is making the right choice in getting married, of course, but the bright-haired young woman is the first one to actually come and tell him _not_ to marry her. That's a new one.

It's a busy morning--a local couple in their thirties comes in with a large group of family for a more raucous ceremony than usual, and then and older couple who just want theirs done as quickly as possible--and by the time the woman comes back, he's almost convinced himself he won't see her again.

But there she is, wearing the same dress, hair swept up, blue eyes nervous now as she looks around the shop. The young man next to her rubs Bellamy the wrong way as soon as he looks at him, although it's hard to be sure he'd feel that way if he hadn't heard the woman wasn't interested in marrying. 

Then again, she never said the man forced her--she had him bring her, under false pretenses. She wasn't kidnapped.

Still, he doesn't like the man's looks, or trust him to take the news that he isn't getting married well. But even if Bellamy isn't much of a smith, he spends plenty of his days lifting heavy things and banging anvils. He can make sure the man doesn't take his feelings out on his unwilling bride.

"We'd like to get married, as quickly as possible," the man tells Bellamy. "It's a pound fee?"

"It is," he says. His eyes flick to the woman. "You want to get married?"

She wets her lips, but her focus is on her betrothed, not on Bellamy. "I'm so sorry, Finn, but--I didn't come here to marry you."

If he looked heartbroken, Bellamy would feel bad for the man. But he just seems confused and a little offended, as if the thought of a woman not marrying him is incomprehensible. As if anyone in the world would want to marry him.

"What?" he asks.

"I appreciate your escorting me, but I don't think I'm ready for marriage. I'll pay your fare for wherever you want to go. But I won't marry you."

"What will you do?"

She shrugs. "Whatever I want."

Bellamy offers up a silent prayer to any gods who might be positively inclined toward a man with a few things in common with a priest, asking whoever is listening to make Finn just walk away. 

But his jaw works. "You can still marry us, can't you?" he asks Bellamy.

"I marry people who consent to be married. She doesn't. I can't do anything for you."

"Clarke," says Finn, turning his attention to the woman, voice pleading.

At least Bellamy knows her name now.

"We don't have anything to talk about. I'm sorry I had to lie to you, but I needed to get out. I appreciate what you did for me."

"And that's it," he says. "Just like that."

She shrugs. "Just like that."

"At least let me walk you back to the inn. We can talk. I can make you--" He seems to realize that's a bad road to go down. "You have to see reason. If you go home unmarried--think of your reputation, Clarke! Be reasonable."

"I can care for my own reputation, thank you. And walk myself home. But I'd like to--" She must be casting about for an excuse to not leave with this man, so Bellamy steps in. He did promise to not marry her; he might as well make sure he finishes the job.

"See the anvil?" he supplies. "A lot of people do. Mine's an antique."

"Yes, please."

Finn looks like he might still protest, but Bellamy carries himself so he doesn't look as big as he is, for the most part, and he can make himself look bigger when he wants to. 

"For your train fare," Clarke tells Finn, handing him a small bag. "I really can't thank you enough."

Judging by the way his hand dips when he takes the money, it's more than he was expecting, and apparently enough to mollify him. "What should I tell your family if I see them?"

"That we didn't marry after all. And that I'm not coming back."

With that, he's finally convinced to take his leave, and once he's gone, Clarke slumps against the wall in relief. "Thank you," she tells him, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Bellamy shrugs. "It's not much harder than marrying someone."

"Still, I robbed you of a fee." She finds a pound in her purse and gives it to him. "The same rate, yes?"

"People don't usually pay me for not marrying them. I'd be rich."

She smiles. "Just this once. Can I see the anvil?"

He shows her around the shop, which doesn't take long, and calls Octavia in to watch it after so he can walk Clarke back to her inn, in case her former fiance is waiting to make his case again. She gathers her things and asks him if he knows the location of a good boarding house.

"I can't thank you enough," she says, once he's brought her to one.

"It was my pleasure," he says. "I don't get to not marry people very often."

She laughs. "You're very good at it."

"Thank you. I hope--" He still doesn't know what happened to her, why she hatched this scheme or what she plans to do, so it's hard to know what well wishes she might appreciate. "You enjoy the rest of your time here," he settles on, at last.

She smiles. "I hope so too."

*

Three days later, she's waiting by the shop door when he arrives to open up, her arms full of flowers.

"Good morning," he says, frowning. "Do you need to not be married again?"

She smiles, a bright, sudden thing, gone as quickly as it came. "I think I'm sufficiently unmarried."

"I'm glad it took." He unlocks the door. "How can I help you?"

"That was my question to you."

"Was it?"

She shrugs. "You perform marriages."

"Usually."

"And you're paid a pound."

"Depending. Some people pay more, some less. It depends on how much they have and how generous they're feeling."

Clarke nods. "The law is that two people have to agree to be married in front of witnesses, yes?"

"It is."

"So you need another witness sometimes. I can do that."

"So can my sister. I manage fine."

"I need an occupation. I have flowers," she adds, showing off her armful. "Which people might like. It doesn't have to be much, but flowers are traditional."

"You understand that people come to be married here because they don't want to bother with a real wedding," he points out. "If they wanted flowers--"

"You can want flowers without wanting a real wedding. Can I try it?"

"Try what, exactly?" 

"Being a witness and offering flowers."

Bellamy considers her, taking in the changes of the last few days. She's dressed more plainly now, or at least less ostentatiously. As the son of a seamstress, he's always had a good sense for clothing, and while the dress isn't flashy, it's well made, with some detailing that would cost money. She gave Finn a bag of coin to get him to leave, and gave him a pound too, and now she's obtained a good number of flowers. It's possible she's reckless with her money, but she doesn't feel reckless to him. She has enough money she can use it to solve her problems: to rid herself of a troublesome suitor, to buy flowers for weddings.

To make a good impression on the man who performs those weddings.

"If you'd like," he says. "We weren't ever introduced."

"Clarke," she says. No surname, no title. Just Clarke.

"Bellamy," he says. "Come in."

He's not expecting Clarke's gambit to pay off, but the first couple of the day smiles when she offers them flowers, and they pay her two shillings for the flowers and another two to be their witness. It's not going to make her rich, but she's making more than it cost her to buy the flowers, and the couple seems to appreciate it.

"Can I come back tomorrow?" she asks, and Bellamy shrugs.

"If you'd like. Are you planning to say here?" he can't help asking. "I thought you'd give your fiance a few days to leave and then go yourself."

"Why would I go? It's nice here."

He'd need a great deal more context about her life than he has to offer a good reason for her to not settle in Gretna Green, but at least if she keeps on working for him, he might someday get that information. And he'll know how she's doing, too. He likes keeping up with people.

"Then you can come back whenever you like," he says, and is rewarded with another one of her smiles.

"Thank you."

He may come to regret it, but he hasn't yet, so all he says is, "You're welcome. I'm looking forward to having some help."

*

Bellamy's too stubborn to just ask for Clarke's story, so he puts things together slowly, picking up the pieces she scatters and trying to assemble them into a picture that makes sense. She mentions her family rarely, but both of her parents are alive, and they seem well off; she'll mention a gown her mother bought for her or some business her father is involved in, things that speak of having money to spare. She has a few friends she'll reference in passing, but he gets the impression that she'd grown apart from them for one reason or another even before she left her whole life behind. 

Mostly, it doesn't bother him, not knowing the particulars of her life, because he knows the broad strokes of her. She's smart and interesting, good company when things aren't too busy. Octavia had been getting tired of having to be on site to be a witness if he required one, and she's glad to have someone else take over her position. Bellamy isn't rich, but he has enough that he can give Clarke a cut, and it seems to be enough for her to get by. She seems to like being here, and he likes having her.

Every now and then, Octavia will ask if he's going to marry her, and he always says no, less because he doesn't want to marry her and more because he doesn't think he will. He certainly doesn't know how to ask.

It's a recurring theme with Clarke: he never knows how to just say what he wants. 

Almost a year after they first met, though, she gives him at least some of the answers he's been looking for, showing up late with a newspaper instead of flowers in her shaking hands.

"What happened?" he asks.

"My father passed away."

"I'm sorry," he says, the words coming out before he's even consciously thought them, the expected response, but he has no idea if it's appropriate. "I assume."

That makes her smile. "I am sorry. But it's complicated."

"You know you can always talk to me, if you want."

She sighs. "He wanted me to marry. Someone he picked out."

"I thought as much."

"I thought it was greed. He and my mother had plenty, I thought they just wanted more. But if he was ill--" She sighs. "He probably wanted to make sure I would be taken care of once he was gone."

"Will your mother be all right?"

"Without me to worry about, she should be." She sighs, rubs her face. "I wasn't planning to go back, so why do I feel guilty now that he's dead for not seeing him? I wouldn't if he was alive."

"I'm not sure. My father died when I was three, and my mother died when I was there. But maybe you thought the two of you would make it up, someday."

"Maybe." She sighs. "And I blame myself. When I left, it probably broke his heart."

"Did you ever get in touch with them again? After your elopement."

"I wrote them a letter and sent it through my friend Wells, so they wouldn't know where I was."

He frowns. "Didn't you tell them you were running away to Gretna Green?"

"Yes, but no one _stays_ here. They just come here to get married and leave."

It's exactly what he thought she'd do when he first met her, so he can't really argue the point. People do move here--he moved here himself, after his mother died--but it's not exactly a destination for well-born young ladies. 

"Were they looking for you?"

"I honestly don't know. I burned my bridges very thoroughly when I left. Not marrying the man you elope with does much more harm to your reputation than marrying him would. They couldn't have taken me back. But--I did love them."

"So why did you leave?"

Her mouth twitches. "How long have you been wanting to ask that?"

"I figured you'd tell me."

"If you ever asked." She wets her lips. "As I said, he must have known of the illness,but he didn't tell me. All he told me was that I needed to marry as soon as possible. He picked a groom, but his taste was very poor."

"So you found someone to run away with."

"I know it seems--" She sighs. "I said I wouldn't marry Mr. Wallace, and he said I would. If I stayed, he would have made me."

"You were old enough to say no."

"And then there would be another, and another. I couldn't stay knowing he didn't care what I wanted. So I gave him a story about what I wanted that he could believe."

"What do you want?" he asks.

She opens her mouth and then closes it, rethinking whatever she was going to say. "When I left, I didn't know. I just knew that marrying some rich stranger wasn't it."

"But you know now?"

"I want what I have," she says, as if she's making her mind up about it slowly. "Just this."

"Good."

"And I want to go to London."

"Oh?"

"Not to stay. Just for the funeral, to pay my respects. He was still my father," she adds, her tone tinged with steel. "I loved him."

He nods. "Of course. Do you want company?"

When she really smiles, Clarke doesn't like to be seen, like she's embarrassed by the expression. She ducks her head, but he can still spot the edges of it, warm and soft, making his heart skip. "Would you mind?"

"Of course not. I can always find something to do in London."

She shows her amusement this time. "Have you ever been to London?"

"No," he admits. "But I'm sure I could find something to do if I went."

"I have some ideas."

"Such as?"

"You'd probably like the British Museum."

"I probably would. When are we leaving?"

*

Bellamy isn't _famous_ , really, but he is somewhat notorious. The anvil priest is a dying breed, a casualty of modernity, and Bellamy is likely the last there will ever be. There's been talk of changing the law, to move away from the old rites, but people _like_ what he does. And he is, if he does say so himself, charming and engaging, a perfect symbol of the entire institution of irregular marriage. He has a reputation, and there are people now who come to have _him_ marry them, specifically.

Which he encourages as much as possible; he can use all the business he can get. And all the publicity. 

So he brings his anvil to London with them.

"It can't be that expensive," Clarke observes as he hauls it to the train. "If someone stole it--"

"It's an antique, Clarke. It's irreplaceable. If I'm losing a few days of work, then I should at least get some attention out of it."

He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth; Clarke's expression clouds. "You don't have to--"

"I didn't mean it like that. I haven't had a holiday in years. But if I can get some publicity for the shop while I'm at it, I might as well."

"You can't bring the anvil to the funeral. Or the British Museum."

She's smiling now, so he lets himself smile too. "It would take some of the focus off you."

"And remove the mystery of where I'm living." 

"I'll leave it in the hotel," he promises. "Don't worry."

There's a crowd to see them off at the train station, the whole town laughing and jeering as Bellamy hefts his anvil up before him. Clarke's right, it would be easier to just replace it if someone did steal it, which he can't imagine they would. But everyone will be talking about this, and they'll talk about it in London too. He doesn't have to cart it with him everywhere he goes, just to and from the train, and then, once he's not holding it, he'll disappear.

It's quite a trick.

Once they're in London, he realizes there was some part of him that worried Clarke missed it, that she would change as soon as she stepped off the train. Maybe she missed this, being a part of society, being somewhere exciting. Maybe she's not meant to stay with him.

"The air's so dirty here," she says, making a face, and Bellamy lets out a breath.

"It is. Good thing we aren't staying too long."

Clarke is quiet for a second, and then she says, "I was thinking."

His heart lodges in his throat. "Thinking?"

"I'm going to need to tell my mother who you are. I don't know what I should say."

"You can't just say I'm a friend?" he asks. "Coming to support you?"

"I doubt she'll believe me."

"So you'd rather tell her a lie she will believe? It's up to you," he adds, before she can respond. "I'm here to support you, and I'll do that however you think would be best. If you want to tell her you did get married in Gretna Green after all, that's fine. Or we could be living in sin, if you want to scandalize her."

That makes her laugh, and some of the tension drains from her frame. "You're right, it doesn't really matter what I say. She's going to believe the worst no matter what."

"What's the worst?"

"That we're not married but I've already had one of your children and more are on the way."

"I can think of worse things."

"My mother can't."

"As I said, whatever you want to tell her. I'm here to make your life easier."

"Thank you."

He shrugs, not sure what to say. It's no great sacrifice for him. Not even a small one. He wouldn't be anywhere else. "Well, you are taking me to the museum."

They spend a day being tourists, which is nice, and the second day, they go to the funeral. Bellamy knew Clarke came from money, but it's different experiencing it in person, all the well-dressed mourners and the large casket. He doesn't think of death as an opulent affair, but he's never known anyone rich who died before. Apparently, they go all out.

Clarke introduces him as her husband, mostly so she doesn't have to have a long conversation with any friends or relatives about who he actually is. Plenty of them heard she'd run off to get married, so it's what they expected, the rebellious daughter and her low-born husband, here to disgrace the family. The bigger surprise is that she came at all.

They make it through fifteen minutes of introductions and small talk before Clarke's mother appears, not that Bellamy actually recognizes her as Abigail Griffin. She's just another woman dressed in black, her grief no more apparent than anyone else's, but she yanks Clarke's arm, eyes roving over her, cataloging every difference.

"You came," is what she finally _says_ to Clarke.

"I saw in the paper."

Her gaze moves from Clarke to Bellamy, taking him in too. He thinks he knows some of what she'll focus on--the shade of his skin, the quality of his clothing--but he holds his head high and meets her eyes when she gets to his face. He's here because Clarke wants him to be here; that's the only thing that matters.

"Is this your husband?"

"Bellamy, yes. Bellamy, my mother, Abigail Griffin."

Abigail's mouth works, the expression reminding him of Clarke. "So, you went to Gretna Green with one husband and came back with a different one?"

"I went with a fiance," Clarke shoots back. "I traded him for someone I liked better."

Another long pause, and then she finally says, "You shouldn't be here."

"Which of us?"

"Either. Your father was trying to help you, and you--"

"If I don't want to be helped, it's not helpful!" she snaps, clearly louder than she meant to. She recovers, takes a few deep breaths. "I know I could have reacted better, but you weren't listening to me. I didn't know what to do."

"You weren't listening to us either."

"You weren't going to convince me to marry Mr. Wallace. We were at an impasse."

Clarke's mother slumps all at once, looking older than her years. "Why did you come back, Clarke?"

"I don't know. I thought I should. If you want me to leave--"

"No, no. Of course I don't--how long are you in town?"

"Only until the day after tomorrow." She glances at Bellamy. "We could have dinner? Catch up?"

Bellamy doesn't join them. Clarke clings to his hand through the ceremony, so hard it feels like she might break it, but she says she can handle dinner on her own, and he lies in their room in the inn, wondering if he'll ever see her again. If she'll be spirited away or, worse, convinced to stay here, to return to the life she was supposed to have.

But she comes back as planned, collapses onto the bed with a sigh of relief.

"It went well?" he asks.

"As well as it could have. I told her I'm not married, but I'm happy. She said I could come home and she wouldn't make me marry anyone. That I could do what I wanted."

"Tempting."

She turns her head to smile at him. "Not really. I'm already doing what I want."

He smiles back. "Good."

*

It's a year and a half before he sees Clarke's mother again, which sounds like a long time, but it's much shorter than he was expecting, given he thought he'd never see her again. Clarke, maybe, would visit home, but he hadn't thought he'd be invited, even if Clarke wanted him to come.

His relationship with Clarke complicated and straightforward all at once. She's his best friend, his constant companion. Once Octavia married and left the house, Clarke moved into her old room. The town gossips are convinced they're fucking or married or all of the above, and if Bellamy's honest, he thinks they should be. But he hasn't figured out how to ask, when he already has so much. He already feels greedy just for wanting.

He's happy, and he doesn't need more.

"I thought you must be the anvil priest," is Abigail Griffin's greeting, when she arrives. "I didn't think there could be many Bellamys."

"Mom," Clarke says, startling as Bellamy shoots to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

She looks better than the last time they saw her, no longer dressed for mourning and smiling in apparently genuine amusement.

"Don't stand on my account. I came for the same reason everyone does: I'm getting married."

There's a little color in her cheeks, a pleased flush that Bellamy's familiar with from years of performing marriage ceremonies. Whoever she's marrying, she's happy.

Clarke's jaw is hanging open, so he does the talking. "Congratulations. What kind of ceremony are you looking for? We have flowers if you'd like, and Clarke takes pictures for a fee."

The camera had been expensive, but it will pay for itself in no time. And Clarke loves it.

"I heard the priest's wife performs ceremonies too," says Abigail, still watching Clarke. "Is that you? Did you finally get married?"

"Not yet, but I'm not a real priest either," Bellamy says. "People like to simplify things."

"Who are you marrying?" Clarke finally manages. There's no sign of a groom, so it's a good question.

"Marcus Kane. You remember Marcus. He was asking about a horse he liked, but he'll be along shortly.

"You're marrying Marcus Kane in Gretna Green," Clarke says, voice blank.

"I thought it would be better to not make a big deal about it. We don't need anything elaborate." She smiles. "A picture would be nice."

"Of course."

"And if you can perform the ceremony--"

"I'll be the witness," Bellamy says. "No problem."

It's not as strange for him as it is for Clarke, but it's still plenty strange. Still, Marcus Kane seems nice and Abigail seems happy, and after they all go out to dinner together, like a family.

"So, the two of you aren't married?" Marcus asks, with apparently genuine interest.

"We just haven't had time," Clarke says, straight-faced, and Bellamy chokes on his wine.

"Of course," her mother says, sounding amused. "It would be so difficult to organize."

"We're very busy."

"Well, when you do marry, I hope you'll let us know," says Abigail. "I know that this place isn't exactly known for long engagements, but I'd like to be here, and it wouldn't take us long to come up. I'd like to see more of you," she adds, to Clarke. "I know it's been--difficult. In the last few years. But I'd like it to be better."

"Me too." Clarke glances at him, her expression unreadable. "If we get married, we'll be sure to let you know so you can join us. We're not in any rush."

They finish the meal, but Bellamy's mind never completely leaves that conversation, doesn't move on from Clarke's mother's certainty that a marriage is coming, the easy way Clarke talks about it.

He doesn't have to say anything, of course. Clarke doesn't see to be planning to. They can go on as they have been, and he'll be happy.But he doesn't know when he'll get another excuse to bring it up, and if he doesn't take this one, he'll be thinking about it for days, weeks, maybe the rest of his life.

They're on their way home when he gets his courage up. "If you want to marry me while your mother is here, now's probably easiest."

She glances at him, expression impossible to make out in the dark. "It's a little late tonight."

"Well, tomorrow."

"Can you marry yourself? Or would we need to get someone else to do it?"

"Almost anyone could, that's the point. But I'd probably ask someone else to do it. If you--" He clears his throat. "I love you and I've wanted to marry you almost since I met you. So we're clear. I just didn't know how to ask."

She laughs, a sound like tension breaking. Or maybe just a sound that breaks tension. "This might be the least romantic proposal in history."

"People don't usually come to me for romance. But I can get down on one knee, if it will make a difference. Come up with a whole speech. Whatever you'd--"

She tugs his arm, and once he's stopped, she pulls him down by the front of his shirt, leaning up so she can catch his mouth as quickly as possible. Her lips are a little cool in the night air, but the kiss is warm and perfect, everything he's been wanting for all these years, and he tugs her closer, reveling in the feeling of having her at last.

"Just find someone who can marry us tomorrow and I'll be happy," she says.

"I think that can be arranged."

The ceremony takes all of a minute, Miller asking both of them if they want to be married, with Clarke's mother and her new husband as witnesses. They kiss again and that's it, no fuss, no great declarations. Not a great romance that will echo through the ages, by anyone's standards.

But he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
